blankets.”
He held open the door. “Show me where they are and I’ll get them myself.”
Her eyes were cool as moonlight. “This will stop. Tomorrow.”
This. His desire to be with her. She knew him well—even with all the years between. Focus on your responsibilities, Luke.
He simply nodded and followed her inside.
Deep in the night, he awoke to voices murmuring and little feet pattering above him.
Ginny. Sick.
The thought drove him from the blankets. A chilly moon in the window outlined his pants draped over the coffee table. He struggled into them. The pup growled softly from the kitchen.
“Go back to sleep,” he mumbled to the dog. “It’s just me.” As he stumbled his way in the dark, his bare foot crushed a sharp object, and he grunted in pain. “Son of a—”
A toy, no doubt. That Alexei hadn’t picked up. The kid needed a lesson in organization, as well as personality.
His arch throbbing like a piston, Luke headed for the stairs, checking the time on his illuminated wristwatch en route: 3:43. Lucky him. He’d gotten about three hours sleep. Too many memories. The worst, no, the sweetest, happened when he’d carried Ginny up these stairs to bed six hours ago.
She’d argued—stubborn woman—then finally agreed to let him pick her up, do his duty.
See, he’d told her. I do have a reason for staying over.
Hmph was all she’d replied. But her arms had been around his neck, her mouth inches away, her scent in his nostrils.
Upstairs in Alexei’s room a lamp glowed on the night table. Bedsheets tossed aside. Boy gone.
Except for a Mickey Mouse night-light, the baby’s room remained dark. Luke crept to her crib. She slept on her back, face turned his way. Little mouth agape, thumb tipped to her tiny bottom lip.
Something bittersweet—regret?—streamed over his heart.
Shoving it aside, he turned for the hallway.
Ginny’s door stood open; filtered moonlight shrouded the room. Two lumps under the quilt.
Luke walked to her side. Alexei lay curled in a fetal position away from her, snuffling little snores.
Like her daughter, Ginny lay on her back. Staring up at him.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. Her eyes scanned his torso, and he realized he stood there without a shirt.
“Somebody have a bad dream?” he whispered back.
“Yes. We’re okay now.”
When he continued to look down at her—God, she was lovely—she said, “Go back to bed.”
He would. In a minute. Bending on one knee, he hunkered on the floor. “Ginny…” I’m sorry for breaking your heart. But I couldn’t resist the lure of status in the firm.
God help me, it meant everything.
More than you.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For breaking your leg. Upsetting your life.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s all my fault.”
The night rang with silence.
“Luke,” she warned quietly. “It’s been more than a decade.”
“I never forgot.”
“Yeah, well.” Voice flat, she sliced him with her cat eyes. “I haven’t either. I remember every second of every day Boone lived. Now please. Go back to bed.”
Bowing his head, he rose. “I’ll make things right between us, Ginny,” he said softly. “I promise.”
“So you said twelve years ago and look what happened. Now go,” she said.
He did. But on the sofa below, he lay awake wishing back the years until dawn licked the window.
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